


Silent

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilingual Characters, Deaf Character, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Language Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1998, the staff of <em>The Daily Show</em> (including star correspondent Stephen Colbert) gets a new addition: deaf writer Jon Stewart. Cue an otherwise familiar blend of jokes, politics, a series finding its feet, and a long-term intimate relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Без единого слова](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332973) by [Madoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi)



> For purposes of this story, ASL will be indicated by italics, spoken English by quotation marks, and typed English by being set off in various ways. There's a lot of cross-language communication in here, and it should be easier to follow if it's instantly apparent which lines can be understood by which subset of characters. Credit and thanks to [ASLU (Lifeprint)](http://www.lifeprint.com/index.htm) for providing vocabulary and grammar.

**(1998.)**

Kilborn was late to morning meeting, so everyone had a few minutes to take in the new writer. He was skinny, Jewy, with dark curls cut short and blue eyes in a long face. And he was quiet. Real quiet.

Madeline, who had been the one to push for hiring him, had pulled him into a conversation that seemed to be all her talking and him nodding seriously. When any of the writers tried to say hi, she would direct his attention to them, and after a quick introduction he would nod politely and let them go.

Finally the boss swept in. "People, people, let's calm down and get this thing started," he said, never mind that none of them had been particularly rowdy. "First order of business: our new hire! Jon Stewart has an impressively long résumé, including writing jokes for some of the funniest stars in Hollywood. Why he gave all that up to come here, we may never know." (Obligatory laughter.) "Jon, why don't you say a few words about yourself, and then we can jump right in?"

Jon started, features settling into an uncertain frown. His pointed at Craig, then spun his fingers in the air. _Do you sign?_

"Uh-huh," said Kilborn appraisingly. "So was that a really complicated rude gesture, or...."

Turning to Madeline, Jon pointed to Kilborn with a what-the-hell? expression.

Madeline had never looked this awkward. "It didn't come up," she admitted, before addressing Kilborn. "Jon's deaf, Craig."

"Come again?"

"Deaf. Doesn't hear. Lip-reads really well, but when it comes to speaking—"

"I know what it means, Madeline!" snapped Kilborn. "I just thought I must have _heard_ you wrong, because I thought when you _recommended_ this guy you would have _mentioned_ that he can't even keep up in a writers' room!"

"He can keep up! You saw his audition packet, you know he's good. Give him a chance, let him type things, and you'll see—"

Jon was tracking between them as quickly as he could, though it couldn't be easy when they kept cutting each other off. He was also shrinking into his chair, face carefully expressionless, though this had to be embarrassing. And maybe scary, because this business could be a feeding frenzy, hundreds of competitors for every spot in a room, and just when he thought he'd gotten one....

Enough of this. Stephen got up, punched Jon in the shoulder to get his attention, and signed, _You're sure you want this job, here?_

For a second Jon gaped at him like he'd hung the moon. _Oh thank g-d you sign,_ he said, spelling out the G-hyphen-D. _I don't even know. M thinks it's a good fit for my sense of humor, and she's worked with me a bunch so she would know, but if this is going to be a nightmare, I won't shed too many tears if they dump me. When did you learn ASL?_

 _Nobody else needs to know this,_ Stephen warned him. _I was born deaf. A couple of my siblings, too. When I was six someone came up with a surgery that fixed one of my ears._ He tapped the one that was shaped properly. _The other one still doesn't work, but I hear perfectly fine as long as people don't mumble._

 _Must help if it runs in the family,_ said Jon ruefully. _I'm the only L who needs it. Mom signs okay, even if she doesn't keep up with jokes real well. My brother understands enough to ask how I've been at Thanksgiving, and that's about it._

How was he "an L"? There weren't any L's in his name. Stephen made a mental note to ask about it later. _What about your dad?_

Jon grimaced. _Not important. Hey, I didn't get your name._

 _S-T-E-P-H-E-N...C-O-L-B-E-R-T,_ spelled Stephen. He'd have to teach Jon the sign his family used for him, so Jon didn't have to call him "S" all the time. Automatically, he added, _The T is silent._

Jon stared at him for a second, then burst into giggles. They were high-pitched and kind of girly, but no way was Stephen going to mock him for that. It wasn't like he could help it, after all.

Several of the writers had noticed the silent conversation by this point, and decided it was more interesting to look at than the show's fuming host or irate co-creator. Kilborn hadn't realized anything was going on until this moment. "What?" he demanded, snapping out of the argument to glare suspiciously at Jon. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing to do with you!" said Stephen quickly. "He was laughing at something I said. I _am_ the funniest person here, after all, so it's only natural." He fell without thinking about it into the habit of signing along as he spoke. It was the easiest thing to do at home, where the deaf people did best with ASL and the hearing people weren't necessarily looking at you. Even if you _were_ as fabulous as Stephen.

Kilborn's brow furrowed. "You can do sign language?"

"Yes," said Stephen, though the sign he made along with it was _Obviously._ "If I make sure he always knows what's going on, will you quit worrying about him?"

"Fine!" cried Kilborn, throwing up his hands. "You. And you." He jabbed a finger at Stephen and Madeline in turn. "You're responsible for him, got it? If he can't hack it, on your heads be it."

Madeline signed a quick _sorry_ at Jon. From the way he only nodded in reply, and the wordless way he'd asked her what was going on earlier, Stephen figured she'd picked up a handful of the most useful signs and left it at that.

Jon touched Stephen's arm. _Did I just get assigned a babysitter?_ he asked.

Stephen shook his head. _I'm sure you'll do great._

 

***

 

Stephen turned out to be pretty much the only thing that made this job bearable.

Madeline pulled up roots and quit a few months after Jon got there, and Jon was fairly sure nobody else there liked him. It wasn't just the language barrier, either, though it sucked how most of them couldn't be bothered to learn phrases like _I understand_ and _give me a minute_. He watched the real news, the programs that _The Daily Show_ 's aesthetic riffed off of, and bristled with ideas for ways to take on the content too. He wanted to write jokes about politicians, not some poor schlub with grainy Bigfoot footage or an extensive earwig collection. He was aching to do _satire_.

He was, in short, a knife that had been dropped into a drawer full of spoons.

So sparks tended to fly when Jon got paired off with this writer or that to work on bits, and not in the good way. The only exception was Stephen. Not only was Stephen willing to keep up with Jon in conversation, he _loved_ to talk about politics. During work they spent most of their time on adjacent computers with Instant Messenger open: ASL didn't have standardized signs for a lot of the more wonkish concepts, so it was easier to skip it and go with typing.

Stephen was self-important, often obnoxious, always willing to have a strong opinion even (sometimes especially) on topics he knew nothing about. If they had run into each other at a party or something, Jon probably wouldn't have put up with him for more than five minutes. But he was also charming, funny (whether he meant to be or not), enthusiastic, and fundamentally non-malicious. They ended up working together whenever Stephen was in the office, and Jon found himself enjoying it.

Less than half of the stuff they came up with made it to air. Kilborn didn't appreciate the sharper pieces; Jon had a hard time producing stupid ones. He was pretty sure he was going to get fired as soon as his contract was up.

There was no risk of Stephen going anywhere. Stephen was a correspondent first and a writer second, was responsible for all the show's most engaging field pieces, and had more presence on-stage than all the other correspondents put together.

Jon hoped they would still be able to hang out after they went their separate ways.

 

***

 

**(1999.)**

**unicornprincess76:** hey Jon  
 **unicornprincess76:** which of the other writers has been the biggest of a dick to you?  
 **shamsky62:** Uhhh...tough question.  
 **shamsky62:** Gonna go with Donovan.  
 **shamsky62:** Why?  
 **unicornprincess76:** ok, he's fired  
 **shamsky62:** What??  
 **unicornprincess76:** well obviously I can't fire everyone at once, so it makes sense to start at the bottom. use your head, Jon.  
 **shamsky62:** Since when can you fire people at all?  
 **unicornprincess76:** since I finished the meeting with the network  
 **unicornprincess76:** half an hour ago  
 **unicornprincess76:** you are now talking to the new host of The Daily Show With Stephen Colbert  
 **unicornprincess76:** :-)  
 **shamsky62:** Stephen, that's tremendous! Congratulations!  
 **unicornprincess76:** eh, no biggie, we all know it was basically a lock  
 **shamsky62:** I have some panicked late-night IM sessions saved that say otherwise ;-)  
 **unicornprincess76:** don't know what you're talking about  
 **unicornprincess76:** also as my first act of delegation I am appointing you head writer  
 **unicornprincess76:** so start taking packet submissions for New Donovan ASAP  
 **shamsky62:** Stephen, I  
 **shamsky62:** I don't know what to say.  
 **unicornprincess76:** you can start with Thank You, My Glorious And Benevolent Boss  
 **unicornprincess76:** or did your mother teach you no manners?  
 **shamsky62:** ...  
 **shamsky62:** Thank you, Stephen.

 

***

 

"Jon, I'd like you to meet Steve Carell." He spelled the name out, unnecessarily; Jon remembered the man who had nailed his audition. "Steve, this is Jon Stewart, the guy I told you about."

"Hi," said Jon out loud. It was about the limit of what he was comfortable voicing. Much more, and people started looking at him funny and treating him like he was slow.

The newest correspondent, a square-faced guy a couple inches shorter than Stephen, shook Jon's hand, then signed, _Nice to meet you!_

Jon did a double-take. _Hi yourself! Stephen, you aren't just hiring people based on whether they can sign now, are you?_ (The sign for "Stephen" was "eagle", but tapped against the heart instead of the face.)

Steve looked blank, a white-toothed grin freezing on his face. "Stephen? What did he just say? Was it good?"

"No, I did not hire him because he can sign," said Stephen to Jon, hands whirling along with indignation. "He knows like eight phrases. I hired him because he'll look good in a suit, although not so good that he'll upstage me, and also because he has the common courtesy to learn to say 'thank you'. Don't expect too much more out of him — he's barely literate in English. He's probably going to need his scripts spelled out phonetically."

Steve waved a hand to catch Jon's attention. "Please tell me you lip-read."

Jon nodded. It was even easier now than usual: Steve was fantastically expressive, and had very clear enunciation.

"Great! Well, has Stephen here ever told you that he has a crippling fear of bears? Not just real bears, either: teddy bears will set him off. He's gotten nightmares from Winnie-the-Pooh, cried like a little baby. It's pathetic."

Stephen shoved him aside. "Steve once got so high that he had an hour-long conversation with a fire hydrant. And at the end he tried to make out with it. Not only that, it was the most action he'd gotten all month."

Steve leaned over Stephen's shoulder. "Stephen doesn't understand the difference between macaroni and the Macarena!"

 _Enough, enough!_ exclaimed Jon, waving his hands emphatically to get the point across. _Oh my g-d you two are terrifying. If we're ever short on material one night, we could do a whole five minutes of just you two yelling at each other._

"He's pitching a segment where we yell at each other for five minutes," Stephen explained to Steve.

_I wasn't "pitching"—_

Jon stopped mid-sentence; nobody was looking at him. Instead they were gazing into each other's eyes, faces right up next to each other, and, hang on, how did Steve know what kind of nightmares Stephen had, anyway? "That sounds fantastic," said Steve.

"Doesn't it?" agreed Stephen, grinning. To Jon he added, _Have a list of at least six possible topics on my desk by this afternoon!_

 

***

 

**(2000.)**

The thing Stephen had not realized, when he started approving more political stories, was that sometimes politics moved _fast_. While a story about hair replacement for G.I. Joe dolls or the Guinness world record-holder for "largest pigeon" was timeless, and could be tweaked or bumped indefinitely, a story about Super Tuesday had to be focused on, polished, and gotten out there by, well, Tuesday. Otherwise nobody would care.

It was only Monday morning, and he was already overwhelmed.

Once the morning's assignments were parceled out, for that night's show as well as for a head start on tomorrow's, Stephen dragged Jon up to his office. For a minute he wore a silent circle in the floor, while Jon watched, concern mapped all over his face.

What Stephen really wanted to do was collapse on the couch and nap for the day, then freeball the whole episode. He certainly had enough opinions to pull it off. Unfortunately, Chuck, their director since forever, would murder him if he tried.

He strode over to the desk, beckoning for Jon to follow. _And bring a chair._

With the two of them seated side-by-side in front of the monitor, Stephen woke the computer up, opened a blank document, and typed:

> why did I think it was a good idea to send everyone away? Vance in TX, Mo upstate, Steve in CA, Nancy in RI, there is nobody left to be the stern and wordy foil to my gut-based interrogative brilliance

Jon appraised him for a moment, then took over the keyboard.

> It *was* a good idea. We're getting live on-the-ground reporting that cuts to the heart of the ridiculousness of the networks' live on-the-ground reporting. And you can carry the next couple shows on your own, Stephen. You've always been able to do that.

Stephen groaned and pushed him aside.

> but I don't **want** to

And he flopped back in the chair, eyes closed. Jon gently removed his hands from the keyboard and added something. When he had finished typing, Stephen forced himself to sit up and take it in.

> We can call Mo back early. Or any of the others, but obviously Mo is easiest. It's your call. What do you want to do?

Well, there was his opening. Stephen steeled himself and answered.

> I want to put you on the air tomorrow.

Jon turned and stared at him, face twisted with incredulity. He didn't have to spell it out for Stephen to get the message.

 _I'm not kidding,_ signed Stephen.

 _What exactly are you expecting me to do?_ demanded Jon. _Sit there and sign while you repeat everything I'm saying? If it's pre-scripted anyway, what would be the point? I'm a writer, not an actor!_

There were a few words coming up that Stephen wasn't sure of, so he went back to the keyboard.

> we can use subtitles! it will be a big step for diversity, liberals are supposed to be all about that right? you're adorable, you're funny, they will love you just for the faces you make. other people should have a chance to appreciate our amazing chemistry. and you've been on stage before I know it was on your resume and everything.

_College standup,_ protested Jon. _At a college where everyone understood ASL._

_And they loved you, right?_

A faraway look came into Jon's eyes. He hadn't wanted to think about it, maybe because he didn't want to brag (which baffled Stephen, who _always_ wanted to brag), but yeah, they had clearly loved him.

Time to press the advantage.

> somebody has to help me out here. this news is all about polls and statistics aka the devil's percentages, of which I understand nothing. also until we know for sure who the GOP nominee is my gut will have no idea who to fall in line behind. I need somebody to carry me through opinion limbo and I want it to be you.

Jon stared at the paragraph long enough to have read it three or four times before adding a reply.

> Your faith in me is very touching, bu

Stephen grabbed Jon's shoulders and pushed his gaze away from the monitor before he could finish. _Jon._ (The sign they used was _writing_ , mirror-reversed to be left-handed, with the hand in the shape of a J.) _Please, give it a try. For me?_

And he topped it off with his most winsome, pleading, helpless-kitten eyes.

 _We'll have to bring in someone for a consult. See if NTID has any political science professors available,_ signed Jon at last. _Nobody's going to have enough patience for this if I always have to spell out things like E-L-E-C-T-O-R-A-L...._

 

***

 

"Joining me now to explain what all these numbers mean, and why I should not be afraid of them, is Senior Tuesday Correspondent Jon Stewart!"

In a badly-fitted suit and one of Stephen's extra ties, part of Jon had never felt so awkward. On the other hand, when the cheap platform beneath them vibrated with the audience's applause, part of him was twenty-one again, watching hands fly into the air across the college auditorium and realizing that oh, okay, _this_ was what his brain was for.

"Before we start, I have to explain that Jon is not so much with the talking thing," Stephen told the camera. "So we're going to be giving him subtitles. And if you happen to be blind or illiterate...suck it up."

He turned to Jon, who had been waiting for the cue. The script hadn't specified that Stephen should break into sign here, but he fell into it anyway. "Jon, what can you tell us about the polling so far?"

Cut to camera three, full frame on Jon.

 _Before we start, Stephen, I have to ask about my title,_ he began. _Does it mean I'm a senior correspondent on the **subject** of Tuesdays, or that I'm only a senior correspondent **on** Tuesdays?_

Cut back to camera two. Both men in frame, Stephen adorably irritated. "No, Jon, you're a senior correspondent on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, alternate Saturdays, and the third Friday of the month. Read your contract. Now what about those numbers?"

Jon flowed on to the setup for the next joke like he'd been born to do it. He had no clue what the audience was doing now, whether each punch line was hitting home or bombing, but he didn't have to worry about that until the wrap meeting. All he had to do now was keep up the banter with Stephen.

 

***

 

At half past two in the morning and with the Florida returns still not in, Jon was up three cups of coffee, down to stale shirtsleeves and no tie. Scribbling notes on a laser-printed map of Florida districts with one hand, he reached for a slice of pizza with the other.

Stephen's fingers, smudged with so much newsprint that it had even dulled his wedding ring, reached the crust at the same time.

He looked like more of a wreck than Jon felt, tie hanging loose and dark hair plastered to his forehead, so Jon let go and gestured that he should have it.

Stephen stared at his hand like he wasn't sure what to do with it. He really must have been exhausted; he looked unsure and vulnerable, and not in the deliberate way he used to manipulate people, either. Had something about the accidental contact caught him off-guard? No, it couldn't have been that big a deal; they touched each other all the time, attention-getting taps and tugs and hands-on-arms.

Jon went back to his map. If Stephen needed him for something, Stephen could always poke him and ask.

He fell asleep on the studio floor at a quarter to five, using his wadded-up suit jacket as a pillow, unpoked.

 

***

 

**(2001.)**

The announcement was finally put over the PA system by the new stage manager, a guy named Bobby who in Stephen's opinion perpetually needed a shave. People started to break away from the clusters that had formed around each of the office televisions, gathering their things, putting on their coats. There were somber back-pats, murmured well-wishes. _Be safe. See you soon._

Stephen tore himself away from one of the clips of smoke billowing across the skyline, scanned the break room for Jon, then went jogging down the hall. He had a wild thought in mind that because Jon couldn't have heard the announcement, Jon might not have realized there was anything going on at all, and when the lights went out and the building shut down he might be left here all alone in the dark.

No sign of him in wardrobe. None in the adjacent men's room. Nobody in the rows of cubicles where they stacked all the administrative staff not important enough to have offices with doors....

"Steffen!"

Stephen spun on his heel, nearly crashing into the wall. Jon had just come around the corner, breathing hard, and was waving for his attention. That was what it sounded like when Jon said his name.

(Six years old, surrounded by a clamor of new sensation he didn't understand how to filter, the day had come when he realized one particular string of sounds from his mother matched up with the letters he signed on all his drawings, that that was the noise meaning _him_....)

 _Sam said you were looking for me?_ signed Jon, closing the distance between them. (Samantha Bee was well on her way to learning more ASL than either Steve or Nancy. The sign they used for her was "bee", at her own insistence.)

 _I didn't know if you knew,_ explained Stephen, feeling stupid now. _We're all going home. So...you can go home._

Jon grimaced. _I don't think I can. My apartment is close to the...the two...._

Stephen flashed _I understand_ , sparing him the need to figure out signs for this. _You have somewhere to go, though, right?_

 _Just bought a little beach house in NJ,_ admitted Jon. _I can go there._

The idea hit Stephen right in the gut, and not in a good way. _No,_ he said, making a snap decision. (He was good at those.) _My giant real house is in NJ. Come home with me._

Jon faltered. _You should be with your family right now._

Moving so fast it came out barely more than a sloppy blur, Stephen said, _I don't have a family._

Jon did a double-take. _Your wife? Your kids?_

 _I made them up. So I wouldn't have to feel inadequate around people like Steve and Sam._ Stephen paused to pull off the ring, the gold band that looked convincingly enough like a wedding ring, until you noticed the Black Tongue of Mordor engraved on the inside. Finest custom jewelry for the rich celebrity geek.

 _Stephen, that's ridiculous,_ signed Jon weakly.

Stephen didn't argue. _If you tell anyone, I will say one of us must have gotten our signs mixed up, and heavily imply that it was you,_ he warned.

There was a long moment while Jon took it all in. Then he shook his head. _You know what? I don't care. It doesn't matter right now. Come on, let's go crash in front of your TV and obsessively watch the news from there._

 

***

 

 **unicornprincess76:** just threw out draft 24  
 **shamsky62:** Do you want some help?  
 **unicornprincess76:** this is not what I signed up to do  
 **unicornprincess76:** I was supposed to be famous and beloved and have my name in a title and my face on screen while I make witty and debonair comments on the current state of negotiations on the capital gains tax  
 **unicornprincess76:** not  
 **unicornprincess76:** this  
 **shamsky62:** Stephen...I don't know what to say.  
 **unicornprincess76:** WELL THAT MAKES TWO OF US DOESN'T IT  
 **shamsky62:** Hey now. Capslock is uncalled for.  
 **shamsky62:** Don't make me come up there and hug you.  
 **unicornprincess76:** sorry Jon  
 **unicornprincess76:** the vaxachillpill is taking a while to kick in  
 **shamsky62:** I understand.  
 **unicornprincess76:** what do you think of this for draft 25:  
 **unicornprincess76:** just me saying "America" fifty times in a row, in various levels of tone and expression ranging from heartbroken to reassuring to patriotic inspiration  
 **unicornprincess76:** because it's better than anything I've come up with so far  
 **shamsky62:** It could work...  
 **shamsky62:** But look, you don't have to be Shakespeare here, okay? People aren't going to be turning to a fake news show, two weeks after the fact, as their main source of emotional support.  
 **shamsky62:** The audience just needs you to acknowledge their pain, and share some little place you've found hope in.  
 **shamsky62:** Even if it's stupid.  
 **unicornprincess76:** I guess  
 **unicornprincess76:** so where do you find hope, Jon, because I am tapped pretty low on options here

_shamsky62 is typing._

_shamsky62 has entered text._

**unicornprincess76:** Jon?  
 **unicornprincess76:** are you afk?

_shamsky62 is typing._

**shamsky62:** I could see the towers from my apartment.  
 **shamsky62:** But when I look out that window now, I can see the Statue of Liberty.  
 **unicornprincess76:** wow Jon  
 **unicornprincess76:** that is really beautiful  
 **unicornprincess76:** how did you come up with something like that?  
 **shamsky62:** ...I didn't "come up with" it. It's true.  
 **unicornprincess76:** yes exactly! it's so moving because it gets at essential truths of the human spirit!  
 **shamsky62:** No I mean it's literally true.  
 **unicornprincess76:** all the best poetry is "literally true"!

_shamsky62 is typing._

_shamsky62 has entered text._

_shamsky62 is typing._

_shamsky62 has entered text._

_shamsky62 is typing._

**shamsky62:** You know what, forget it.  
 **unicornprincess76:** so can I use it in the speech?  
 **unicornprincess76:** or is it (c) Jon Stewart?  
 **shamsky62:** You can use it in the speech as long as you make sure to say that it's my specific apartment you're talking about. Okay?  
 **unicornprincess76:** yes that is a compromise I can live with

 

***

 

**(2002.)**

Jon and Stephen were going over the breakdown for the next week, rearranging multicolored cards on the cork board, when Chuck stopped by. "Hey, Stephen? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

 _Can you give us a minute?_ signed Stephen. Jon nodded and grabbed a nearby script to edit, taking a seat facing away from Stephen as he went to greet the director. "We're doing very important work here, all right? Work so important that Jon assures me it trumps my need to have the cards arranged in a pretty rainbow design. What do you need?"

Chuck glanced uncomfortably in Jon's direction. "Can we do it without him?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"You don't need to whisper," said Stephen irritably. "As long as you don't start playing a bass drum or anything, he won't notice a thing. It'll be like he's not even here."

"Yeah, okay," said Chuck, though he was still fidgeting. "The thing is, Stephen...I know you're really excited about the way this show has been picking up...but I don't think I can keep pace."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, the graphics, for one. When I started out here there were a couple dozen graphics cues to call in any given episode. These days you're pushing hundreds. And the camera work! You can't keep writing bits that call for ten different shots in thirty seconds. I know _you_ can keep up, but you're burning me out, here."

Stephen drew himself up stiffly, eyebrows a sharpened arc. "I have a vision for this show, Chuck," he said. "A vision that sometimes involves getting all possible angles on my very photogenic face in a very brief span of time."

"We all know you've got a vision, Stephen." He was doing the awkward-glance-at-Jon thing again. "And other times it involves quick-change subtitle gags, and you two will improvise on the pacing, and I'm only getting cues from half of it anyway, so—"

"Are you saying you have a problem with Jon?"

"I'm saying I have a problem directing this show!" cried Chuck. He winced, reassured himself that Jon hadn't twitched, and went on. "And either you two need to dial it back to a manageable level of visual chaos, or you need to let me know what reasonable amount of time it'll take to interview my replacement."

When he was gone, Stephen collapsed onto the couch in a huff, wadded up a spare bit of paper, and lobbed it at the back of Jon's head. _Chuck says either we slow down the visuals or he's quitting,_ he signed miserably, once he had Jon's eyes.

Instead of looking affronted, Jon seemed to be thinking this over. _I could slow down the visuals,_ he replied. _Write more low-effects bits. The bells and whistles are fun, don't get me wrong, but we can create solid material that will hold up without them._

Stephen decided not to mention the fuss Chuck had made about subtitles. _Bells and whistles are very important to my vision._

To his relief, Jon didn't fight it. _I understand._

So that was it, then. Decision made. Farewell party to plan. And... _Who do we know who's experienced at directing late-night and currently looking for a job?_

Jon shook his head. _We don't go looking in late-night._

_What? Where else, then?_

_We put out a call for people who are experienced in directing news._

 

***

 

**(2003.)**

"And the Emmy goes to... _The Daily Show with Stephen Colbert!_ "

Stephen grabbed Jon's arm and pulled him out of his seat, just in case Jon hadn't realized what it meant that clips of their show were playing on all the screens, or had missed that all the other writers were getting up. They filed down the aisles like a row of penguins toward the gold-and-white stage, while the announcer continued, "Accepting this award will be _The Daily Show_ 's head writer, Jon Stewart!"

The presenter, an actress whose name Stephen had already forgotten but whose dress was a stunning Versace, handed Jon the Emmy and stepped away from the microphone to leave him room. Jon looked blankly at it for a second, then turned an adorable sheepish smile on the audience while Stephen darted around him to skid into the spot.

"Hi everyone," said Stephen, as Jon turned to keep an eye on his mouth. "I'm Stephen Colbert. As some of you may know, Jon here is amazing with the writing, but has a _terrible_ voice." Appreciative laughter, at least from the people who weren't stuck wondering if they were allowed to laugh. "So he's going to do a quick acceptance speech in American Sign Language, and I will do the translation. Also, hold onto that Emmy for him." He grabbed at the pretty statue in what he felt was a very subtle way. "Gimme."

Jon relinquished the award, then signed, _You're going to give it back, right?_

"Of course I'm going to give it back!" cried Stephen, affronted. A ripple of laughter ran through the seats. "Do your speech, already. We're running out the clock here."

With a nod, Jon faced the cameras and the crowd. Even to the side of the microphone, he was getting plenty of well-deserved spotlight. _This is a huge honor for all of us here on The Daily Show,_ he began. _Especially since we were up against some stiff competition. I'd like to thank the Academy..._

Stephen dutifully echoed him up to "...'to thank the Academy'," then added, "although the fact that they didn't give Stephen here the Best Host award is a criminal lack of judgment — ow!" Jon had driven an elbow into his ribs. "What was that for?"

Hands flashed; Stephen automatically translated. "'You were going off script.' And how would _you_ know? 'Because, Stephen, you're just that predictable.' Now wait just a minute, I— 'Can we get back on track now?' Oh, fine."

Jon took a moment to give him a soothing pat on the shoulder before continuing. _...the good people at Comedy Central who've given us this opportunity. All the members of the crew who do such amazing work behind the scenes, especially our amazing director, Jimmy. AOL Instant Messenger for being our primary mode of communication around the office. The friends and family who have supported us all year, hi Mom, are you going to stop asking when I'm going to become a doctor now? And of course, my wonderful boss...._

"...'my wonderful boss....Stephen Colbert'?" Stephen's interpretation faltered due to a sudden attack of choking up. "You really mean that? I didn't make that up!" he added to the crowd. "He really said that one!"

Now Jon turned to smile at him, and nodded. Tears sprang to Stephen's eyes; his bottom lip was wobbling. Jon put an arm around him, inviting Stephen to sob on his shoulder, then waved a no-translation-needed farewell to the audience.

They were unobtrusively wrestling over the Emmy as the crowd clapped them off the stage.


	2. Chapter 2

**(2004.)**

**unicornprincess76:** how's it going?  
 **shamsky62:** Other than the piece about Iraq falling apart in my hands for lack of comedy potential? Going great.  
 **unicornprincess76:** look at it this way  
 **unicornprincess76:** at least the live election show isn't for 8 more months  
 **shamsky62:** Oh my god don't remind me, I'm going grey fast enough as it is :-(  
 **unicornprincess76:** at least you're going to look dignified when you go grey.  
 **unicornprincess76:** hey since when do you write God? I thought you did the whole hyphenating thing  
 **shamsky62:** Huh?  
 **shamsky62:** Oh, right.  
 **shamsky62:** Yeah, the best deaf elementary school in my area was run by Orthodox Jews. Any time my vocabulary's a little weird, that's probably why.  
 **unicornprincess76:** oh.  
 **unicornprincess76:** I can teach you the real sign for God if you want.  
 **shamsky62:** Why Stephen, if I didn't know better, I'd think that was the world's lamest come-on.  
 **unicornprincess76:** what the hell Jon  
 **unicornprincess76:** that isn't funny  
 **unicornprincess76:** sexual harassment is a very serious issue  
 **unicornprincess76:** they told me so like 30 times during the court-ordered seminar  
 **shamsky62:** Sorry, sorry! Didn't know it was a sore spot. I won't go there again.  
 **unicornprincess76:** see that you don't  
 **unicornprincess76:** >:-(  
 **unicornprincess76:** also don't worry about the Iraq thing  
 **unicornprincess76:** we can fill the time with footage from yesterday's press conference  
 **shamsky62:** The one that was five minutes long and didn't allow any questions?  
 **unicornprincess76:** not this again  
 **unicornprincess76:** "ooh look at me, I'm Jon Stewart, I cry like a little girl when the Bush Administration doesn't let reporters walk all over it, waah waah waah"  
 **shamsky62:** Yes, how dare I expect the press to be allowed to do its job. What a shocking and offensive suggestion. Entitlement culture at its worst.  
 **unicornprincess76:** glad you see it my way  
 **shamsky62:** I'm getting back to work now, Stephen. Please only IM if there's breaking news I need to know about.

 

***

 

As the election drew ever closer, tension in the _Daily Show_ studio ramped up.

Not, this time, because of the workload. In the past four years they had built up a thriving staff and earned a serious budget. It was chaos, but manageable chaos.

No, the problem was the increasingly agitated gulf between the head writer and the host.

Morning meetings were always a mixed bag of techniques. New hires had to pick up Jon's basic list of instructions within the first week — story assignment, approval, denial, and tabling, plus stalwarts like "tell me more" and "I understand." A red plush frog got tossed around the room to whoever had the floor, helping Jon track the conversation and heading off problems like two people's mouths moving at once. The whiteboard at his end of the table was always stocked with fresh markers, though if a complex opinion came up he was more likely to scribble it on his notepad and have the person next to him read it. And of course there was Stephen, with one foot (well, one ear) in both worlds, able to translate other people's opinions either way when he wasn't too busy expressing his own.

(It was enough to get things started. Discussion and clarification throughout the day would happen over IM and email, and the final round of editing would involve Jon, Stephen, and one or two individual writers around a much smaller desk, printout in front of them and red pens in hand.)

They were in the middle of deciding how to cover the latest testimony in the Abu Ghraib case, Jon unmoved by any of the angles pitched so far. One of Stephen's favorite writers was in the middle of laying out another one when Jon rapped his knuckles twice on the table and held out his hand for the frog.

(It was a very nice frog. Stephen had won it at the Jersey boardwalk for knocking over enough ducks with a water gun, back when he was still small-time enough to visit places like that and not get mobbed.)

No sooner was it in his hand than he lobbed it at Stephen, and was signing while it was still in the air: _Their standard is 'at least we're better than Saddam Hussein'? Seriously? That whole conference was full of lines, Stephen. We can stand them up like dominoes and get our whole string of punchlines from knocking them over._

Because it gave him more opportunities to hear the sound of his own voice, Stephen was usually willing to hold mid-meeting conversations with Jon like a sitcom character on the phone. "You think we should get our punchlines by criticizing all of the Army's very valid reasons for definitely not torture that was only perpetrated by a few bad apples anyway?" he said/signed, the frog dropped onto the desk in front of him. "Jon, if I didn't know better, I would think you didn't support our troops."

_Don't you go throwing buzzwords at me, Stephen. Something went wrong here. Powerful people dropped the ball and are trying to talk their way out of it. That's our cue to bring the satire._

"Buzzwords? It's not a buzzword, it's a very marketable slogan! As attested to by the five yellow ribbons on my bumper so far. And no, we don't _have_ to satirize everything the people in charge 'get wrong.' Especially not Rumsfeld." Stephen shuddered. "Did you _see_ how intimidating he was with those people who complained about the military's culture of intimidation?"

_Always the excuses! Rumsfeld's intimidating. Cheney might carve out your heart in your sleep and replace it with a creeping eldritch horror. Having issues with Bush at all is un-American...._

"They are not excuses, they're perfectly legitimate reasons! And what issues _could_ you have with President Bush? We have a decisive, authoritative, fantastic Commander in Chief. This man _stands_ for things. And on things. And in front of things. Say what you want about the Mission Accomplished photo op, but you can't deny it was very some very impressive standing."

_So we're supposed to smile and nod at everything the administration does, up to including degrading treatment of prisoners in American custody, because our president — is good at standing?_

"You want to do this, Jon? You want to get into this?" demanded Stephen, getting up out of his chair. "Because you are welcome to join me on the air for this one. Haven't gotten to do nearly enough shouting at correspondents since Steve ran off to Hollywood. We can get a whole back-and-forth going, you be the liberal, I'll be the conservative, have graphics mock up a logo in the _Crossfire_ font—"

"No!" shouted Jon, slamming his hand against the table.

Everyone froze — even Stephen, hands still in the air, mouth open — as Jon too rose to his feet.

 _We are not modeling anything on Crossfire._ His face was sharp, eyes blazing. _Everything that show embodies — the artificial left-right binary, the fake 'balance' of equal time for people whose views are not equally rational, the need to drum up conflict and ratings at the expense of facts and any interest in informing the public — it's toxic, it's hurting America, and we are not touching it._

"That isn't your call, Jon." Stephen's signs were as fluid as ever, but his voice had gone dangerously low, leaving the writers and correspondents even more terrified. "You aren't the one with your name in the title."

 _Let me rephrase,_ said Jon. Instead of pointing to himself for the next pronoun, he thumped his fist against his chest. _**I** am not touching it. **You** make whatever call you want._

A long silence. In all senses of the word.

"Well! I think we have enough material to start with," exclaimed Stephen, clapping his hands together and offering everyone but Jon a horrifying phony grin. "You all, uh, go ahead and divide up and do your research thingies, okay? I will be in my office, doing...something extremely important! Nobody bother me!"

With that, and with one last grey-faced look at Jon, he fled the writers' room.

Everybody was trying their best to look somewhere other than at Jon or the chair Stephen had vacated. Jon took a steadying breath, then leaned down and knocked twice on the table. Once he had their reluctant attention, he turned to the whiteboard and spelled out their instructions, turning out the capitals in short, choppy strokes:

DIVIDE UP + START ALL OTHER ASSGT'S  
BUMP UP EDITING, ROB F. PIECE - ASSUME NECC. ACT 2  
ANY ?S OR FEEDBACK NEEDS - HOLD 1HR

He underlined it all in a slash of green, and signed, _You understand?_ A smattering of nods answered. Jon didn't look closely enough to make sure everyone had followed, just dropped the marker back in its groove, circled the table, and was out the door too.

Nobody moved to scatter into their assigned pairs just yet. No one else even said a word until Ed Helms, in a small voice, spoke for all: "I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight."

Rob Corddry put an arm around him. "I know, buddy. I know."

 

***

 

It took a good half hour for Stephen to work through all his emotions and pull himself together.

Several pieces of furniture in his office had to be kicked in the process. There may have been a small amount of sobbing into a pillow. He composed the first paragraph of an angry letter in all caps, stared at it for a minute, deleted it all, then slumped all the way down to the floor for a good five minutes of feeling sorry for himself.

At last he crawled back up, IMed Jon ("meet me in my office in 5min"), and immediately signed off before Jon could reply.

Stephen was on the left side of the couch when Jon showed up, laptop on his knees. Jon didn't look ready to throttle him any more, so Stephen patted the cushion to invite him over.

(It was a convenience thing, the side Jon always took; it kept the side with Stephen's working ear available for people who might need to talk at it. Entirely coincidence that it put Jon perpetually at his right hand.)

Once Jon was in place, the computer was easy to slide across into his lap, document open:

 

> okay Jon I have given this a lot of thought
> 
> and have concluded, in a way that does not at all compromise my absolute dictatorial authority over this here operation, that:
> 
> WHEREAS our ratings have been perfectly fine with me listening politely to correspondents, and reserving my shouting for the camera; and
> 
> WHEREAS everyone here is used to my temper and probably only pretending to take it seriously, yours is actually scary; and
> 
> WHEREAS bow ties are stupid anyway,
> 
> we on The Daily Show will not attempt to mimic Crossfire, Hannity & Colmes, etc. in any way, shape, or form. also you will no longer automatically be vetoed on writing jokes that I feel show an un-American level of critical thought, as long as I am not the one who has to deliver them.
> 
> please don't leave I'm sorry I don't know how to do this without you

 

Jon took it all in with his most serious demeanor, then pulled a flash drive out of his pocket. He stuck it in one of the laptop's ports, opened one of the files from what looked like a list of notes on guests and rejected script ideas, and passed the whole thing back to Stephen.

 

> Stephen,
> 
> I'm really sorry about how all that went down. I knew I was picking a fight with you there, and at the very least should have saved it for a private conversation later. And I shouldn't have threatened to quit. That's not a fair bomb to drop, especially when I haven't even tried to talk things out like a reasonable person.
> 
> I don't want to quit.
> 
> There's one thing I do want, and that's a real interpreter. Or at least a personal assistant with interpretation in their job description. You should have grown out of the role years ago; it's only worked as well as it has because we're so used to being joined at the hip. And obviously we can't count on that any more...that's not a dig, by the way! Friends fight sometimes. It's normal. I just need someone who's paid not to walk out and leave me at a disadvantage when it happens.
> 
> Okay, there are two things I want. The other is to keep being your friend. Please?

 

Great, now Stephen was tearing up again. Biting his lip, he added a couple of hard returns and tapped out a reply.

 

> okay. IM whoever writes job postings for us and tell them what you want in the job posting. then tell whoever sets up interviews for us to set up some interviews.

 

Jon read it, smiled, then asked, _Are you ever going to learn what anybody on your staff does?_

Stephen arched his eyebrows. _I believe the word you're looking for is 'thank you'._

(The sign: the hand motion of blowing someone a kiss, aimed at the party being thanked. Usually paired with a smile. Very rarely paired with the full Colbert glower.)

 _Thank you,_ replied Jon, in between trying not to crack up.

 

***

 

"Welcome to _The Daily Show_ — special live hour-long election-night edition! I'm Stephen Colbert, and tonight we will be bringing you the most up-to-the-minute voting results, just as soon as we can get them from CNN's website.

"We have an enormous effort out there tonight, our entire team of correspondents working — Samantha Bee embedded with the Kerry campaign, Ed Helms will be checking in from Bush headquarters, Rob Corddry is here in the studio supervising our fancy light-up map, and we'll have William Weld and Al Sharpton joining us later. The real Al Sharpton, this time."

Appreciative laughter; much of the audience remembered the day Sharpton had canceled an interview at the last minute. Stephen himself had ended up playing both roles, scrambling back and forth between the guest's spot on the couch and the host's chair at the desk. He'd been out of breath by the end of it, but elated to have discovered a way to show his audience a conversation without the critical downside of having to share their attention with another person. The tech people would have to find a more efficient way to do it one of these days.

"Let's start right here in the studio," he said now, "with our Senior Election Analyst, Jon Stewart!"

He waved down the desk, which had been extended for the occasion in a long arc down the side of the stage, giving Jon plenty of room for his laptop, an open binder, and a coffee mug full of pens. Jon was scrolling intently through something on the screen, and didn't look up.

"O-kay," said Stephen, trying to sound peppy. "Obviously since tonight is going to move so fast, and does not have a pre-determined schedule, Jon does not know exactly when I am going to need him. Give me just a second while I get his attention...."

He fished around behind the desk, and came up with a flag-painted 1:43-scale Formula Palmer Audi and matching remote control. A murmur ran through the crowd as he set the car on the desk, fiddled with the dials for a moment...and sent it whizzing across the lucite, launching right off the edge to strike Jon in the shoulder.

Jon's features snapped through shock-fear-annoyance as he flinched, yelped (though he wasn't mic'ed, so only Stephen could tell), and grabbed the offended arm while ducking to avoid any future missiles. _Stephen!_ he signed an instant later, glaring. _Couldn't you have gotten a light to flash at me or something?_

"Lights don't have the same dramatic cachet, Jon," said/signed Stephen imperiously. "Now that you're with us — you've been following this whole long and exhausting campaign in more detail than any of us. How about some thoughts on how this night is going to go?"

 _Oh, no you don't,_ replied Jon, shaking his head and flashing that expression with the wide eyes and puffed-out cheeks that said he was definitely not going there, and didn't think much of your chances if you went there, either. _No predictions. Not saying a word until every vote is in, or at least every vote from Florida. I still have a crick in my neck from sleeping on it funny during the all-nighter we pulled the last time around._

"Uh-huh," said Stephen. "Is that why you brought your own pillow this time?"

Jon nodded, picking it up from behind his end of the desk so the audience could see. "Ah, an ergonomic pillow, fancy," narrated Stephen. "And — you have more? I see, your slippers...and a sleep mask, very classy, I like the leopard print...and a stuffed bulldog?" Jon cuddled the toy with one arm and spelled with the other. "Mister Jowly! Good name."

As Jon settled the plushie on his lap, Stephen added, "Well, it's a good thing you're prepared to be here for the long haul if necessary, because this is probably the most important election of our lifetime. Wouldn't you agree?"

 _No, that's just something we say every election because it makes our ratings higher,_ said Jon. _Wait, are my subtitles still on?_

 

***

 

**(2005.)**

Halfway through rehearsal (most of the show that night was covering reactions the death of the Pope), everyone except Jon had a sudden start. Stephen at the desk, the camera guys at their posts, the collection of writers and production assistants in the seats...even Ed, and he was checking in from Rome at the time.

Jon tapped his assistant, who was looking wildly around the room. _What did you hear, Kallie?_

 _I don't know,_ she replied, still skittish. _But if I had to guess, I would say...the screams of a thousand tortured souls crying out in agony?_

 _Probably just the wind,_ said Jon. He understood that they could be a lot alike.

 _It's at least the third time it's happened this month,_ Kallie pointed out, not looking convinced. _I wouldn't be surprised if Stephen did something to bring down an ancient curse on us._

_Oh, come on. He's great at annoying living people, sure, but that doesn't mean he's moved on to earning grudges from the dead._

So saying, he turned back to see if the action on-set had resumed...and found a ghastly translucent clip of the Crypt Keeper grinning at him.

The noise Jon made in his panicked flail, as Stephen later informed him, sounded exactly like a pig objecting to being wrestled into a Betsy Ross costume. Jon decided he did not need to know how Stephen knew that.

 

***

 

Three weeks and a parade of exorcists later, they found someone who claimed to supernatural senses and didn't either shrug and say they were in the spiritual clear, or end up running sobbing from the building.

"This is not a curse," she said after circling through several of the halls, emerging at last from the back of the set. "And I sense no malevolent spirit...not a human one, at any rate. Whatever it may be, it has an objection to your presence here."

"Sounds pretty malevolent to me!" huffed Stephen.

"Not malevolent. Opinionated," corrected the exorcist. "Surely you of all people would know the difference."

"Touché," muttered Stephen. "All right, so why doesn't it want me here? Is it upset about the smell of my cologne? Should I part my hair on the other side?"

"It may not be you specifically." She walked along the front of the desk, nails clicking on the lucite. "Another member of your staff...the position of this furniture blocking a vital energy flow...the products of one of your sponsors."

"Disembodied forces from beyond the veil might want to lodge a complaint about Prescott Pharmaceuticals?"

"If only it were that precise! It may simply mean your operation..."

"The two-time Emmy-winning _Daily Show with Stephen Colbert_."

"...has overstayed its welcome here. All I can say for certain is that the complaint would not follow you to another location, nor would it harass a new set of tenants in this building."

"So, in other words," said Stephen, "disembodied forces have begun reaching out to us from beyond the veil...to make Comedy Central answer our long-standing request for a bigger studio."

 

***

 

The last Friday before the two-week break was moving day. In boxes and cartons, on trolleys and in bags, the accumulated detritus of seven-plus years of nightly television show production flowed out of their familiar building like sand from the top of an hourglass.

Their new building was only a couple of blocks away. But the studio space was bigger ( _We'll have a great space for musical performances now, Jon! It's very cool, honest_ ), the wiring and plumbing were more modern (fluorescent bulbs and low-flow toilets!), and they were using the occasion as an excuse to commission a whole new set.

Long gone were the days of browns and purples. And this one was going to be even bluer, shinier, and more high-res than the last.

In his office for the last time, Jon slung one final backpackful of items over his shoulder and nodded to Kallie, who directed the movers to pick up the filing cabinet. He watched it get wheeled out the door, then signed, _That's all I need for the day. You can clock out a few minutes early, okay?_

_Sure thing, boss. Text me if you need anything._

He waved her away, and, once she was gone, swung the other direction to make his way out through the set.

Stephen was already there, sitting in his usual spot, elbows on the desk and chin in his hands. Jon clapped to get his attention; he sat up and spun, sheepish. _Jon! Hi there. I was just leaving._

 _No rush,_ Jon assured him. _Going to miss this old desk, huh?_

That got a grin out of Stephen. _Not as much as I'm going to love the new one. Did I tell you we're going to get it shaped like a giant C?_

 _Only about twenty times,_ said Jon with a laugh.

_Oh. Right. Well, it's about time for me to head out. You coming?_

_Go ahead. I'll catch you up._

Jon thought about taking the seat he'd left, but settled on meandering down the set to where Camera 1 would have stood. No TV magic to help the view now. The desk and the backdrop looked like what they were: little, cheap, thrown together on a budget in a small space and totally lackluster without proper lighting. But they had, in one form or another, been home for a long time.

And then came another round of eerie grey silhouettes misting through the air.

Before he could sign _all right, all right, I'm going,_ the images resolved into something recognizable. Not the Crypt Keeper this time, or the exploding-head scene from _Scanners_ , or any of the other terrors the building had thrown at them when screeches and wails didn't take. No, all it showed was a slightly different set — backdrop like a sunburst, centered around that C-shaped desk Stephen kept talking about, though it had a screen embedded in the front playing footage of a bald eagle soaring. It was too blurry and indistinct around the edges for Jon to read the words mounted overhead or scrolling past on LEDs near the floor, but the center was clear enough to show Stephen himself sitting in the host's spot.

The ghost Stephen looked despondent as he said something to Jon...no, to the insubstantial camera. It took Jon a moment to realize he needed to lip-read. He caught "I guess I have no choice but to admit—" before the ghost caught its nonexistent breath and listened.

Jon wondered vaguely if the scene actually had ghost sound.

Then the translucent grey Stephen mouthed "Jon!" — and a translucent grey Jon strode into view. Beaming with relief, Stephen stood to greet him, to let this Jon clasp his hand and clap him on the shoulder, radiating benevolent confidence.

They sank back into their seats. The ghost Jon soaked in applause from whatever other-dimensional audience he was playing to, while the ghost Stephen introduced him...

...and then they began to talk.

The scene faded out while they were still deep in conversation, not a twitch of ASL in sight, leaving the real Jon gaping at a dark and empty set.

His inner hypochondriac insisted that it had all been a hallucination, a disturbingly long and involved one, and he should check himself into the nearest hospital ASAP. For once, Jon ignored it. Whatever had just happened, it had been given to him from outside, and there was something profound and real at its base.

_We still would have been friends._

Jon signed _Thank you_ into the air, directing it at the set for lack of anything more substantial to address. Then, in case their inhuman supernatural presence was more of an auditory type, he said it out loud. "T'ank yoh."

A cold gust of wind came out of nowhere, blowing him toward the door.

Well. Jon could take a hint. He waved goodbye anyway as he carried the last grain of sand out of the hourglass.

 

***

 

The new studio wasn't haunted by anything, although it did have several Giant Heads that would pop out at unpredictable moments.

Jon got to be friends with the Giant Head of Brian Williams. Obviously it couldn't sign, but it was really easy for him to lip-read.


	3. Chapter 3

**(2006.)**

_The Daily Show_ did another hour-long live broadcast for the midterms, on a fully decked-out set. The C-shaped desk was briefly carted away and replaced with a longer one that could seat Stephen, a correspondent, and any of the various guest commentators they would be bringing on throughout the evening.

It was not, this time, long enough for Jon. His stuff was neatly arranged on the poll-analysis desk, no less shiny but a whole lot smaller, off to one side.

The layout made sense. They were doing interviews, for which Jon would be little more than a silent greying decoration; his assistant's contract didn't include on-screen appearances. And John Oliver, though still new, was a solid choice for the night's alpha correspondent: funny, sharp, with a killer deadpan and what Jon was informed was an accent that American audiences naturally wanted to listen to.

If Jon had been thinking of getting jealous — which he wasn't, not at all, no sir — then Oliver was about the least likely target for it. He had been a huge fan of the show before he was hired, taught himself passable ASL with its help, nearly fainted when offered the correspondent role. The first time they had met, Oliver had grabbed Jon in a fervent hug and sobbed all over his shoulder. Any kind of desire to upstage Jon would be the furthest thing from his mind.

Besides, hadn't Jon only ever signed on to this job to be a writer? Anything he got to do on-set at all was icing on the cake.

He was going to be fine. He had a very adequate desk, complete with a beautiful blinking light that could be activated by the remote sitting over with Stephen. Mister Jowly was tucked in next to his legs for emotional support purposes. The Democrats were poised to sweep the results, which was not only a relief after the policies of the last six years, it meant Stephen would be devastated, and need some understanding friendly comfort....

 _...the hell?_ thought Jon, burying his head in his hands. _Am I actually hoping for Stephen to be upset so he'll need me more? Some kind of friend I am._

He had to focus. _Shake it off,_ as Stephen would say. The overhead camera was swooping across the stage, the poll numbers were pouring in, and they weren't going to get any retakes.

 

***

 

When the email from the network appeared in his inbox, Stephen did a giddy dance in his chair, considered replying instantly with "yes! a thousand times, yes!", then decided maybe he should call Jon first.

 _An hour?_ signed Jon, as if trying to confirm that he'd read it right. _Permanently?_

 _Isn't it perfect?_ enthused Stephen, sitting behind the laptop and trying to sign around the beautiful, beautiful screen. _They've never found anything worthy to follow me in the 11:30 slot, so they finally realized the solution: fill it with more me!_

 _You know that's basically what we have now, right?_ asked Jon. _Except that while we do get royalties from the 11:30 reruns, we don't have to produce an extra half-hour of content every night for it._

 _We can do it!_ said Stephen confidently. _Papa Bear does it! On top of a radio show and three books a year!_

(He couldn't remember whether his adoring nickname for Bill O'Reilly had inspired the sign they used for him, or the other way around.)

Jon ran his hands through his hair and started typing.

The man had nice hands, Stephen thought idly as he waited for Jon to finish. Could do with less hair from the knuckles on back, but the fingers were way longer and more elegant than you expected from such a short guy. Obviously they moved fast, with perfect control — Stephen didn't spot him hitting the backspace key once. No decoration, no adornment, just bare skin all the way up the lengths of his fingers....

Stephen was semiconsciously rubbing his pseudo-wedding ring with his thumb when Jon handed him back the computer.

 

> I can understand why you're enthusiastic about this, Stephen, but think about what you'd be asking of people. I know you could handle up to an hour of being in the spotlight. Think about the rest of us.
> 
> Jimmy's been amazing at keeping up with the amount of cues you want sometimes. That doesn't mean he could sustain that level of attention for twice as long every day, sit in the same spot for a solid hour. Remember that it would be a lot harder than your sitting, because he doesn't get to stretch or play with props or run around the set like you do. And if you screw something up, half the time you can make cute faces to bring the audience through it. He screws up, the whole thing has to be done over.
> 
> Our talent coordinator is sleep-deprived as it is. If she has to wrangle twice as many calls from dickish celebrities making stupid demands, she's going to implode.
> 
> The writers...maybe we could do it, especially with a budget for hiring a few more into the ranks. We suggest and produce and go through and throw out a lot of material. But the stuff that gets thrown out is because it's not as good. Could you look the viewers in the eye if you were knowingly serving them substandard material?

(Stephen was pretty sure he could. But Jon would be the one who felt most responsible for said material, and "not making Jon sad" was still pretty high up on Stephen's list.)

 

> The other correspondents don't have time to do twice as many field pieces. Not unless we forbid them from working on any other projects. And the whole reason we're not going through them so quickly any more (besides your charming personality, and the dogs in the office) is that we finally got that us/everything-else balance right.
> 
> Stephen, you know I love you, and I'm very proud of what we've built together. I don't want to put that in danger. Not for the sake of a Viacom ratings grab, and especially not when it would risk burning out so many good people in the process.

He was right. He was so right. Why did Jon have to be so good at thinking about other people? Why did he have to have priorities other than putting Stephen on TV? Stephen desperately wanted more time on TV.

 _You're really proud of this?_ he asked, trying to draw something good out of this crushing pile of reason.

 _I'm very proud,_ Jon assured him, drawing out the sign longer than almost any Stephen had ever seen from him. _And I really love you, buddy._

That only made things worse, sending a sudden rush of blood to Stephen's face. He slumped in his chair, furious with himself. It was times like this he wished Jon was blind instead. Or had any other disability that didn't keep Jon _looking_ at him all the time.

Jon tapped the desktop. _Stephen. Tell them to table it._

Stephen frowned up at him. _Say that again?_

_Table it. Don't reject it. Maybe we can use it later to negotiate some other kind of expansion. I don't know, pitch a spinoff or something. How many people have left this show to do something related? Lizz has a fake morning talk show. Steve did a movie about fake newspeople. Corddry the younger is in a fake comedy/variety show. We've got a bunch of talented people stewing over ideas for their own projects. Maybe we can give one of them a platform that keeps them in-house._

Oh. _Jon, there is a key omission in your plan, and that is that it doesn't involve more of me on TV._

Jon shrugged. _Maybe we'll find a way to do both? You never know. Just keep the option open._

 

***

 

**(2007.)**

**unicornprincess76:** okay I will grant you that it may not be "true" in the old-fashioned plebian literal sense  
 **unicornprincess76:** but think about it from a postmodern perspective  
 **unicornprincess76:** you must grant that it is an accurate summation of what he *wishes* to be true  
 **unicornprincess76:** and isn't that, in a way, its own kind of truth?  
 **shamsky62:** ...No.  
 **unicornprincess76:** this strict authoritarian notion of what is "true" and what is "false" is antithetical to the American dream anyway.  
 **unicornprincess76:** if I want to believe that energy-efficient light bulbs give kittens cancer, isn't that my right as an American?  
 **shamsky62:** (a) No, and (b) what?  
 **unicornprincess76:** you have to stop clinging to this rigid antiquated idea of "truth"  
 **unicornprincess76:** be more open to things that are merely truth-ish  
 **unicornprincess76:** truthlike  
 **unicornprincess76:** truthy  
 **unicornprincess76:** you have to stop being so dismissive of other people's truthiness  
 **shamsky62:** That's called lying, Stephen.  
 **unicornprincess76:** what is with all the snark today?  
 **unicornprincess76:** can I do this bit, or are you going to follow me onto the set and make sarcastic comments there too?  
 **shamsky62:** ...  
 **shamsky62:** Would you let me?  
 **unicornprincess76:** oh, sure, that sounds like a real recipe for success  
 **unicornprincess76:** Stephen Colbert Delivers Finely Crafted Speeches On The State Of America while Jon Stewart Sits Behind Him And Generates Sarcastic Comments In The Subtitles  
 **unicornprincess76:** it will be our greatest hit  
 **unicornprincess76:** audiences will learn to go wild the moment the title appears on screen  
 **shamsky62:** You know, that could be an interesting gimmick.  
 **shamsky62:** Like O'Reilly's Talking Points segments, only instead of an ugly graphic on half the screen there's another person, and the text is arguing with your points instead of regurgitating them.  
 **unicornprincess76:** what?  
 **shamsky62:** I'll send it to a couple of the writers, have them spitball some topics.  
 **unicornprincess76:** wait  
 **unicornprincess76:** wait Jon that was sarcasm  
 **unicornprincess76:** Jon??

 

***

 

They called it "Wørd of the Day."

It was billed as part vocabulary lesson, part Special Comment, part "Jon making adorable faces and being devastatingly witty." They always started with a single word, Jon on a split-screen providing the corresponding sign; they leaned more than ever on their full-time on-call consultant from Gallaudet, to keep them in touch with the norms being developed by ASL-using serious political thinkers as new topics and ideas came on the scene. The first time she wrote "I can't find an individual sign in use for this one — go ahead and make something up," Jon nearly had a heart attack.

 _We'll just have to spell it out,_ he told Stephen. _What if we toss off some stupid random gesture and it becomes the national standard? I can't take that kind of responsibility!_

 _The esteemed Professor Rosen clearly thinks you can,_ Stephen replied. _What's the big deal? It worked out great with "truthiness."_ (The signed version was like "truth", but instead of drawing a decisive line, your finger wandered off to the side at the end.)

 _That was not a serious word!_ lamented Jon.

(When the beginning of 2008 rolled around, the American Dialect Society was going to make him take that back.)

He was even more horrified when the National Association for the Deaf (to which Jon sent his dues every year, even though the acronym always made him snicker) tried to give him an excellence-in-education award. A couple of panicky emails got them to foist it off on Dr. Rosen instead, though Stephen was once again baffled. _Why would you not accept it, Jon? It's an award!_

Jon rolled his eyes. _Somehow I think I'll survive with only our joint Meritorious Service Excellence Award, the show's third Television Broadcast Excellence Award, and our fourth straight set of Emmy nominations._

At least Stephen had a thing for English plays on words, which they didn't even try to adapt. "No, Jon," he would say/sign, turning to Jon's desk after he had signed the word _arrogance_ , "it's a pun! Get it right."

 _Sorry,_ replied Jon, looking appropriately admonished, and spelled out A-I-R-O-G-A-N-C-E.

A minute later in the segment, Stephen intoned "How can we possibly know which countries are against global warming?" Jon's hand shot into the air to start a reply. Then he paused, sighed, and said instead, _Jimmy? Roll the list of Kyoto Protocol signatories._

He rested his chin in his hands and relaxed with an angelic smile while nearly 200 country names scrolled across his face.

 

***

 

Stephen made it through the first act with one hand under his desk, a bag of ice numbing the shooting pains in his wrist.

What had he been thinking? Why did he have to run so fast in greeting the audience, why had he let himself slip? What if it was broken? What if he'd torn all his tendons? What if he lost the ability to move it? He wouldn't be able to write. Or talk to his siblings. Or talk to _Jon._

He kept up a mask of alternating cheer and anger as he delivered his lines, then, as soon as the cameras had panned out, went back to hunching over his injured limb and letting his face react to the pain and fear however it wanted.

As always, a handful of people swarmed around the desk in the few minutes they could leave the audience hanging. Someone from makeup, to touch up his face and dab away any sweat from the overhead lights. An intern with a fresh bag of ice. A writer or two, to confer over the acts remaining.

Tonight, since Jon wasn't scheduled to be on-air, he was in his grey T-shirt and khakis and at Stephen's side in an instant. His assistant, who favored nicer shirts but had gotten in the habit of also wearing khakis, kept pace with him before circling the desk. _Don't try to sign. I'm putting Kallie behind you,_ he ordered. _Are you okay to finish the show? I had wardrobe grab a wig and a copy of this suit in Oliver's size — he's ready to step in. And we can swap in Sam's latest BKAD for the second act._

Stephen winced. Maybe he could have admitted defeat under other circumstances, but if it meant abandoning his beautiful, perfect, all-American show to be saved by a crumpet-munching ex-chimney-sweep and a syrup-sucking icehole? (No offense to his foreign-born correspondents. They did great work.) His pride wouldn't stand for it. "I'm fine! Probably just a sprain. I can push through it. Shake it off. See?"

He tried to flap his hand around to demonstrate, only to let out a very manly shriek of agony and shove it back against the ice, sweating and gritting his teeth.

In an instant Jon's hand was cupped against the side of his head, soft and steadying.

"Okay, addendum," panted Stephen, leaning ever so slightly into Jon's touch. Jon wasn't looking at his assistant now, he was fixated on Stephen's eyes and mouth. "I will be fine as long as I don't do that again."

Jon studied him for a moment, then nodded and let him go. (The makeup tech swooped in right away to smooth down his hair and powder away whatever smudges Jon had left on his cheek.) _You're going to the doctor once this is over, got it?_

"Uh-huh," said Stephen miserably. Being stoic hadn't worked; time to go for adorably pitiable. "Jon? Will you come with me, in case they have to drug me or something? And if I die, you promise to look after the show, right?"

 _You're not going to die, you big baby._ (Behind him, Kallie discreetly choked. Nobody but Jon could have gotten away with talking to Stephen like that, not even a hypothetical person interpreting on Jon's behalf.) _But yes, I'll come with you. If you feel worse after the second act, let me know and we can have Oliver play you for the interview._

The staff was dispersing; the Springsteen tune on the speakers was coming to its final chords. Stephen moved the ice with his numbed wrist back under the desktop and looked for his camera.

As Jon and Kallie moved off-set, he glanced in their direction, and caught her signing, _What about his wife?_

 _Let it be,_ replied Jon, as the stage manager signaled the audience to start their back-from-break applause.

 

***

 

Stephen spent most of the first day post-surgery in his favorite armchair, taking the heavy-duty painkillers every couple of hours and zoning in and out of consciousness in between. Jon stayed over to make him sandwiches, note down the times of his medication on a neat little chart, and play with the dog.

Mid-afternoon, while Jon was relaxing with a book on Stephen's second-favorite armchair, Stephen yawned, extracted himself from the light blanket Jon had laid over him, and shuffled off to the kitchen.

A minute later, Gipper hopped up from where he had been chewing on his squeaky duck and trotted in the same direction. The dog wasn't nearly bright enough to learn to nudge Jon on Stephen's behalf, but he knew how to come when called, and Jon just had to recognize that as his cue. He left a postcard in the book to mark his place and followed.

Stephen was crouching on the tile ruffling Gipper's fur when Jon arrived. He fed the dog a rewarding biscuit and looked up.

 _What do you need?_ asked Jon.

Stephen moved to answer, caught himself, and shot a despairing look at his sling. ("At least a week," the doctor had said.) At last he got to his feet and fingerspelled _C-O-F-F-E-E._ With his dominant hand it would have taken about a second; as it was, he needed two or three.

 _I put it in one of the cupboards. You're not supposed to have caffeine right now,_ Jon admonished him. _And you need to let yourself rest._

Stephen answered that one with a mournful pout.

_Can I get you something else? Hot chocolate? Non-caffeinated soda?_

Stephen made another reflexive move to start a two-handed sign, or maybe just a right-handed one. Stymied once again, he spelled _B-E-E-R?_

_No alcohol either. It'll interact badly with your medication._

At least this time Stephen went straight to fingerspelling. _M-E-A-N-I-E._

 _Sorry._ Jon punctuated it with his best look of genuine sympathy. _Orange juice? Water?_

Stephen slumped in defeat. _Orange juice,_ he replied, and shuffled back toward his chair.

Gipper was left with a dilemma: follow the person who gave him treats, or stay with the other person in the room where the treats were? He turned in a circle trying to look at both of them, got overwhelmed by the whole thing, and collapsed in the doorway in a sad-eyed heap. Jon had to step over him to carry the orange juice out.

He found Stephen kneeling at the coffee table, feeding a DVD from a _House, M.D._ boxset into his laptop. _You gonna watch?_

 _No thanks._ Jon found a coaster and set the orange juice down. _My book is just getting to the good part. Did you know that when the Secretary of the Treasury first commissioned a report on—_

Stephen rolled his eyes and looked away, cutting him off.

After a moment's thought, Jon put a hand on his shoulder. _Are you sure you don't want one of your hearing friends to be here for you?_ he asked, once he had Stephen watching again. _It's not exactly advanced medicine; anyone could do it. You wouldn't have to keep confusing Gipper, you wouldn't have this communication handicap to work around...._

An emphatic shake of the head. _I don't want another friend,_ he signed ferociously. Some of the words came out garbled, but the context made it clear enough. _I want you._

 _Okay,_ replied Jon, and pulled him into a hug.

Stephen said something out loud, then. With his throat against Jon's shoulder, Jon's skin could feel the vibrations. But he didn't repeat it after they separated, so Jon decided not to push, and let him drink his juice in peace.

 

***

 

 **unicornprincess76:** so apparently there is going to be some kind of strike??  
 **unicornprincess76:** nobody warned me about this  
 **unicornprincess76:** stupid union thugs and their stranglehold on the industry  
 **shamsky62:** The WGA has been in negotiations for weeks. Our writers have pitched three separate pieces on it. Didn't you wonder what that was about?  
 **unicornprincess76:** no Jon, at this point I make enough money to pay other people to wonder things for me  
 **unicornprincess76:** hey can I borrow your assistant for a minute?  
 **shamsky62:** Kallie? Sure. She's taking a call, but I'll send her up as soon as she finishes.  
 **unicornprincess76:** fantastic  
 **unicornprincess76:** also we got an email from the network  
 **unicornprincess76:** they say the TDS website is up and running and it looks beautiful  
 **unicornprincess76:** my face is on every page!!  
 **unicornprincess76:** and they want us to pitch ideas for exclusive content to draw in more of the kids, get those sweet eyeballs to tempt the advertising dollars  
 **unicornprincess76:** something to think about  
 **shamsky62:** You know that's what the possibly-strike-inducing negotiations are about, right?  
 **unicornprincess76:** what?  
 **shamsky62:** Writers don't get any royalties from the network putting our content online.  
 **shamsky62:** Doesn't matter how many advertising dollars it makes. We won't see a penny.  
 **unicornprincess76:** WHAT  
 **shamsky62:** Yep.  
 **unicornprincess76:** JON THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS  
 **unicornprincess76:** SHAMELESS EXPLOITATION OF THE WORKING CLASS  
 **shamsky62:** Not that you and I are anywhere near "working class" at this point....  
 **unicornprincess76:** NOT RELEVANT JON  
 **unicornprincess76:** AN INJURY TO ONE IS AN INJURY TO ALL  
 **unicornprincess76:** WHEN DO WE STAND UP AND STICK IT TO THE MAN OVER THIS  
 **shamsky62:** Probably early November. Assuming we haven't negotiated a reasonable compromise with the Man beforehand.  
 **shamsky62:** OK, Kallie's on her way up.

Grumbling to himself, Stephen closed the window displaying the (beautiful! shiny!) _Daily Show_ website and tried one more time to read the terms his legal counsel had advised for his latest brilliant plan. They were still impenetrable. All he knew was that the general thrust of it was "yes."

"Mr. Colbert? You wanted to see me?"

"Please. Call me Stephen," said Stephen. "Come have a seat. I have an awesome offer to suggest to you, although at this point I have no idea when it can feasibly take effect or whether Jon will give his final approval at all."

"Um." Kallie took the seat across from him. "What kind of offer-suggestion-thing are we talking about, exactly?"

"Well, you know how Jon always cares way more about most of the guests than I do? Not the actor guests, he really doesn't care about most of those, but the politicians and people who write books and stuff?"

"...is this a trick question?"

Stephen sighed. Why did his employees always have to assume he was leading them into rhetorical traps, just because of all the times he had led them into rhetorical traps before? "You know how Jon actually reads the books, and I don't?"

This was evidently non-opinion-dependent enough for her to feel safe answering. "Yes."

"And you know how he comes up with all these great thought-provoking questions, and sometimes we only get through five or six of them? We'd get through even less if I let the authors finish all their answers."

"Yes...."

"And you know how Jon is sometimes visibly dying for a chance to talk to these people himself, only he doesn't have an interpreter whose contract includes appearing on-screen?"

Kallie was starting to look worried. "Am I being fired?"

"If by 'fired' you mean 'asked whether you would be open to negotiating a new contract that includes on-set work,' then yes," said Stephen. "Yes, you are definitely being fired."

"Stephen...could you ask that in a way that makes sense?"

"It makes perfect sense!" cried Stephen. "Sure, we could hire a part-timer to come in and interpret just for the interviews, but you already have years of experience with how Jon uses English when he's writing, and you'd be able to bring that to your translations better than just about anyone. Except me, obviously. So, do you want me to forward the tentative updated contract, or do you want me to plan to maybe have to scout around for someone else?"

"I...would like you to forward the contract?"

"Will do!" said Stephen. "And, Kallie? Don't raise your inflection at the end of sentences. It makes you sound indecisive."

 

***

 

**(2008.)**

The return to the office — of what had been rebranded _A Daily Show With Stephen Colbert_ until the strike was properly over — was bittersweet. For Jimmy, Bobby, Kallie, the other managers and administrative assistants, the camera techs, the wardrobe and makeup people, and much of the other staff, it meant a return to getting their well-deserved regular paychecks. For Jon, Stephen, Wyatt, and John — the only writers with other roles in the show's production — it meant a lot of sitting around in the too-empty writers' room, talking about what general topics they could cover that night and throwing the occasional blank-paper plane.

They didn't split up, even for routine's sake. Nobody was quite sure whether "IMed words as part of a long-established substitute for spoken conversation" would be strike-breaking writing or not, so Jon had decided to play it safe and keep them in the same room as much as possible.

His assistant was drinking a lot of extra coffee. At least there were enough open chairs that she didn't have to do these marathon interpretation sessions standing up.

"Okay," said Wyatt one morning, "let's think seriously about this: What time-sucking props _haven't_ we used?"

"We could have Stephen dance again," suggested John. "The crowd loves it when he dances."

"I can't dance any more," said/signed Stephen imploringly. His glasses sat on the table; there seemed to be new lines around his eyes. "I am danced out. I am like the evil queen in her red-hot shoes. Any longer and you're going to dance me to death." He buried his head in folded arms.

 _We could pick a fight with another writerless host?_ suggested Jon. _Conan would probably be up for some meaningless sniping to fill up his show._

But that required something to pick a fight over, and the only idea they came up with was Stephen's "his stupid hair."

"Oh! I've got it! We need to get talkier guests," exclaimed Wyatt. "Then, if Stephen can control himself a little, he can ask his questions and let their answers run long enough to fill the second _and_ third acts."

"Crazy idea," said John.

"Crazy _awesome!_ "

"I still say musical performances are the way to go," declared John. _Sorry, Jon,_ he added.

 _Hey, some of those things are plenty interesting to look at,_ replied Jon with a shrug. _And, come on, look at the bright side._

Wyatt raised his eyebrows. "Bright side?"

_Stephen knows it...._

Hearing his name repeated by Kallie, Stephen raised his head. "Wha?" he asked through the tousled mess of his hair.

 _Yes, you. Cheer up,_ Jon urged him. _Aren't you glad we don't have to fill a whole hour?_


	4. Chapter 4

**(2008.)**

The third act opened with a tight shot of Jon sitting at the interview table: a nice round plastic-and-lucite setup on the side of the stage, even more normal-looking when compared to the C-shaped desk. Jon was scribbling mindless doodles on the cards that listed his questions, but he looked up as the applause died down, smiled winningly at the camera, and began to sign.

"Welcome back to _The Daily Show with Stephen Colbert!_ I'm Jon Stewart."

A snicker ran through the studio audience. They could see a couple of punch lines ahead, and were enjoying it already.

"Now, those of you who are long-time viewers of the show will notice something different about me today. Specifically, this melodious new voice. For those of you who were big fans of the subtitles, don't worry: they've been sent to a very nice farm upstate, where they will have lots of space to run and play and be happy."

As arranged, the teleprompter stopped scrolling while people laughed. They had also planned emergency backup signals for Kallie in case the techs screwed up the timing, but the pause before it started up again felt right to Jon. It was about the same length of time Stephen left after Jon's answers before moving on to the next question.

"The voice tonight will be provided tonight by my capable assistant, Kaleo Thompson." Jon turned to face the chair across from him. "Kallie, would you like to say a few words as yourself before you go back to being me?"

He folded his hands on the desk top and waited, with an expression of polite, genuine interest.

"Um, sure, I guess," said/signed Kallie, as the shot panned back to reveal that she was wearing a suit and tie that almost perfectly mirrored Jon's, her dark hair swept up under a cheap (but passably Stewart-esque) grey wig. "Are you sure I have to wear this?"

Jon gave a short, sharp nod.

"Okay." She turned to the camera and signed, briefly getting her own subtitles: _Hi, Mom! Check it out, I'm on TV!_ "I guess that's it."

"Thank you, Kallie." She even looked more confident when providing Jon's voice. "About time to bring out the guest...if you would?" She nodded, stepped out of the chair, and took her post behind and to the left of the guest: easy to both hear and see. "Can we give her another hand? Kallie Thompson, everyone."

Pause. A quick round of clapping, this time. Scroll.

"Our guest tonight. An investigative reporter for the _New York Times_ , his new book is called _The Commission: The Uncensored History of the 9/11 Investigation_. Please welcome to the show Philip Shenon!"

Walk-on. Smile. Sign _welcome to the show_ as he approaches, trust that Kallie repeated it, shake the guy's hand.

Jon was maybe two parts giddy as a schoolgirl who just got Justin Bieber tickets, one part terrified that this was about to come crashing down around him, and five parts fascinated with the book and downright hungry to get more of the author's thoughts on it.

They dove in.

 

***

 

"Hi, everyone. Well, this is awkward...but the interview ran a little long, by which I mean like eight minutes longer than expected. So there's going to be a couple of weird edits in the middle. The good news is, I just found out the technical staff is able to put our whole uncut things on the web for everyone to see. ...uh, that didn't come out right."

 

***

 

"Can you stick around for a couple more minutes? We'll do the fade-out, then we'll come back and keep talking for a little bit, and that part will be put up on the Internet."

 

***

 

 **unicornprincess76:** so i herd u liek interviews  
 **shamsky62:** ???  
 **unicornprincess76:** it's a meme, Jon. all the kids do it these days. get with the times.  
 **unicornprincess76:** you like doing the interviews.  
 **unicornprincess76:** you are totally into these x-treem interviewz, radical, dude!  
 **shamsky62:** The freshness of your "memes" aside...yes. It's tremendous, Stephen. Thank you so much for working this out for me.  
 **unicornprincess76:** no prob, no prob, just what friends do :-)  
 **unicornprincess76:** but Jon we may have an issue  
 **unicornprincess76:** you ended up going over time in 3 of the 4 interviews last week  
 **unicornprincess76:** haven't had time for us to write a Wørd of the Day in months  
 **unicornprincess76:** also it has finally sunk in that this means 33% less face time for me in a night  
 **shamsky62:** Stephen, if we have to cut this, please just cut to the chase and say so.  
 **unicornprincess76:** hear me out sir

_unicornprincess76 is typing._

**unicornprincess76:** this could be our second half hour.

you could clearly fill a full 12+ minutes of guest time on-air every night without blinking. we wouldn't even be asking advertisers to take a chance, because Internet people inform me that the hits your full-length interviews get online are super-double-plus-good! plus you could extend into the act before or after if the guest was really awesome, making even less work for the rest of us.

it's still only one guest per night. unless they look like boring guests, in which we should probably play it safe and book two in a row. that would still would involve filling 200% of the time with less than 200% of the bookings.

it's a low-effort segment for the writers, because you just come up with smart questions and then let the expert do all the talking.

also low-effort for Jimmy and the crew. no fancy camera work, no lightning-fast slew of effects, not even any subtitles, just cutting back & forth between you & Tonighty McGuesty. plus if we bump up the frequency of having a field piece in the first half, we can make sure they get breaks if they need it.

we have a ton of correspondents and contributors. more than ever before. and if for some reason they don't produce enough material I'm sure we can find an emergency backup. the building manager thinks I'm cute, he would probably go try to do a field piece if I asked.

and it would all happen with me getting 100% to 133% of the former max amount of face time

(did I get all those numbers right? I had to ask Allison for help.)

y/y/mfy???

_shamsky62 is typing._

_shamsky62 has entered text._

_shamsky62 is typing._

**shamsky62:** I don't know! I want to say yes, you are clearly some kind of mad genius (Allison-enabled or not) who has worked out the perfect way to give me everything I've ever wanted in life. But it would still leave me supervising more writing than before (50%-100% more, give or take), on top of making sure I always have backup questions ready for those interviews that turn out less naturally engaging than expected. I had these vague dreams of having time for a social life again once the election was over...not that I've ever been great at that anyway, but still! This time it isn't about concern for everyone else. It's 110% about me. I'm scared of burning myself out. I'm scared, Stephen.  
 **unicornprincess76:** Jon please take a deep breath  
 **unicornprincess76:** there is this exciting new thing called delegation! it means making other people do some of your work for you. for example: the new head writer will do most of the wrangling, just as soon as I figure out who they will be.  
 **unicornprincess76:** which of the writers have you judged most awesome?  
 **unicornprincess76:** my guess is Allison! or Ben. or both! we could have co-head-writers!  
 **shamsky62:** And I'm...becoming a standard writer/correspondent again? Or, I guess, a writer/interviewer? What's my job title in this scenario?  
 **unicornprincess76:** did I not mention the part where I wanted you to be my co-executive-producer?

Twenty minutes later, Jon showed up in Stephen's office with a freshly-delivered basket of muffins, and hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe.

 

***

 

Jon botched his first interview with John McCain. He had admired the man deeply over the years, but at some point the uncomfortable lapses in integrity that had been all over this campaign season had to come up, and he probably went at it too hard. McCain was probably not coming back.

He did pretty well in his first interview with Barack Obama. They really hoped he would accept another invitation one of these years.

At some point Stephen decided he missed doing interviews after all. The show hired a couple of assistants for their talent booker, and quietly started bringing in second-act guests who could speak to whatever topics Stephen most wanted to talk about that day. He stayed at the C-shaped desk for these. The interview table was Jon's.

 

***

 

The Indecision 2008 set was a thing of beauty.

Stephen's desk got moved into Jon's spot, and Jon's table stashed off-set entirely, making room for the latest and greatest multi-seat edition. The complaints Stephen had were mollified by a giant C-shaped decal on the back of his laptop. He checked in with all the correspondents in turn, and co-interviewed a few special guests with the help of Jon-via-Kallie. As ever, Jon kept an eye on the numbers, and periodically stepped in with the results of congressional races as they came down.

As the hour wore on and the washes of red and blue (but mostly blue) spread across the map, Stephen got more and more depressed. When they didn't have a guest between them, Jon did a lot of comforting patting.

They were about to push into overtime when CNN called it.

Stephen might hate it, but he had one last sacred duty to do as host before he found a dark corner somewhere to curl up and sob into a carton of Americone Dream. He tapped Kallie with his WristStrong hand, signed _I'll do it,_ and faced bravely forward.

"The next President of the United States," he said, simultaneously with Jon, "is Barack Obama."

And then it turned out he wasn't even going to get peace after that, because Larry cited the new racial paradigm as a reason to escort him and Jon out of their seats, while Wyatt took over _his precious desk._ Everything was chaos for a while. The fact that Jon's immediate response had been to scoot meekly out of the way did not help.

(Kallie, of course, moved to follow Jon. "No, no, you can stay!" exclaimed Larry. "Hawaiian people are totally covered by this too.")

 

***

 

Jon figured, and rightly so, that it was probably not a good night to leave Stephen alone. By the time the car dropped them off Stephen was red-eyed and stumbling on his feet; he only managed to kick his shoes off before tumbling fully-clothed into Jon's guest bed, eyes closed, mumbling things that Jon didn't have a prayer of lip-reading. It was left to Jon to turn out the light.

The next morning Stephen seemed downright functional, stealing one of Jon's razors to touch up his face and making pancakes while Jon did the crossword.

 _It's the day after,_ he explained, between carving up syrup-drenched forkfuls. _That means it's basically the Boxing Day of Election Day, right? The day when you traditionally take the election back and exchange it for a new one?_

 _If only anything in the world worked that way,_ replied Jon dryly, taking a moment to spread more butter over his own plate. _But it could be worse, right? Even you have to admit, at least it's not a rehash of 2000._

 _2000 had its good points,_ sulked Stephen. _Like the fact that it ushered in eight years of our greatest president: what's-his-name._

_President Bush?_

_No, that can't be right._ Stephen paused to lick syrup off his fork, tongue caressing the curve of the tines. _Remember how he handled Katrina? And those two never-ending wars he started? And you'll have to take my word for this, but the man couldn't pronounce...well, anything._

Jon (who had, in fact, supervised the writing of enough pronunciation-based jokes that he _didn't_ need to take Stephen's word for it) let it go. One of the greatest perks of getting to this point, in his opinion, was the serious possibility that he might not have to discuss George W. ever again.

(The other one, which he also couldn't see bringing up with Stephen, was the reappearance of enough free time for a social life. The whole subject was an area his otherwise opinion-driven Stephen avoided like the plague; whether he was closeted or asexual or just had terrible luck, Jon didn't know and hadn't pried. Besides, at this point, the amount of time Jon had gone without getting laid was just embarrassing.)

 

***

 

The year's big nondenominational holiday party was held at Jon's new loft apartment.

Stephen usually avoided hosting because of the whole "conspicuously missing wife and kids" thing. He was playing that safe even now, though he had spent a couple years not bringing them up, and was now trying to give people the vague impression that he had gone through a painful divorce some years back. New hires wouldn't know the difference, and Jon kept assuring him that his long-term employees had all figured it out by now.

Conveniently, nobody else wanted Stephen to host either. His attempts to include non-Christmas holidays in the decor, however well-intentioned, never seemed to go over well.

So here Stephen was in Jon's living room, alternating between saying hi to people and subtly adding extra holly and candy canes to Jon's boring attempt at seasonal decoration. (It was mostly candles.)

There were plenty of people to talk to. The guest list included most of the staff who were still in town, various friends and associates that they didn't necessarily get to see in person that often, and a veritable flock of plus-ones. Back in the day Jon would have found Stephen's side early and never left it; now whenever Stephen looked for Jon he spotted him deep in conversation with Professor Rosen, or one of their NAD contacts, or — more slowly, notepad on hand for difficult moments — John Oliver or Sam. Which was good! It freed Stephen up for...networking. Yeah.

On his way into the dining room for more cookies and eggnog, he taped some mistletoe over the doorway.

His chance came not fifteen minutes later, when he spotted Jon's sensible navy sweater (with the not-entirely-sensible snowflake pattern worked into the knit) moving toward them. Stephen had to shoulder his way around a circle of conversation (it involved Wyatt, his girlfriend, and Conan O'Brien, who in spite of their January feud had accepted this overture of peace), but he finally managed to come up sideways and tap Jon's shoulder.

 _Well, this is awkward,_ he signed, looking up at the mistletoe.

"I know, right?"

Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. Kallie, in an exact duplicate of Jon's outfit, gave him a sheepish smile.

"Why are you dressed like you're on the job?" demanded Stephen, clutching his pounding heart. "Why are you wearing the _wig?_ "

"I've conditioned myself to feel more confident in large groups if I present this way?" said Kallie. Then she signed, _If this whole thing was an excuse to kiss the real Jon, you may have a problem._

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." _I wasn't. But let's say I was. What problem?_

"Stupid enough that you're going to not kiss me over it?" _Jon brought a plus-one._

"What?" _What?_

"Mistletoe. Kiss. Hurry up, I want to get another mini cheesecake." _In the purple dress. Go look._

Stephen groaned, dropped the world's quickest chaste peck on Kallie's cheek, then shoved her (gently!) in the direction of the food and went looking for Jon yet again.

He spotted the dress first. The woman in purple was someone he had noticed signing earlier; he had assumed she was either NAD or one of their +1s. Now she was walking on fabulous heels toward one of the hastily-composed circles of seats: an ugly metal chair, three nice wooden ones, and a recliner. She handed a topped-off glass of champagne to...okay, yeah, that was Jon in the ugly metal chair.

Stephen pressed himself against the bookshelves and scooted down the wall, trying to get a better line of sight. Purple Lady took the seat next to Jon, holding her own glass of champagne. She smiled. He smiled. So far, so normal...

Then Jon took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist, charming gaze never leaving her eyes.

Stephen quickly made himself very busy straightening the nearest row of fake candles.

There was no mistaking the intention there. Jon was a reserved kind of guy; if he'd been hearing, he probably would have been one of those people who flinched when patted on the back. He wouldn't be making out with someone's hand if they didn't have some kind of _thing_.

Defeated, despondent, Stephen slunk off to the kitchen. The buffet table was not equal to the level of feelings he was feeling right now. Hopefully Jon had a pint or two of ice cream in the freezer.

 

***

 

**(2009.)**

**unicornprincess76:** welcome back to work. how was your break?  
 **shamsky62:** Pretty relaxing. Stephen, are you okay?  
 **unicornprincess76:** of course Jon I am perfectly fine why would you even ask a thing like that  
 **shamsky62:** Because you never ask anybody how their break was.  
 **unicornprincess76:** maybe my new year's resolution is to be more courteous did you ever think of that  
 **shamsky62:** Oh. Sorry, no, I didn't.  
 **unicornprincess76:** I accept your apology  
 **unicornprincess76:** and am still awaiting your apology for not telling me about your lady friend  
 **shamsky62:** Since when do you ever want to hear about my love life?  
 **unicornprincess76:** since new year's Jon try to keep up  
 **unicornprincess76:** sooooo who is she?  
 **shamsky62:** Which one?  
 **unicornprincess76:** ...  
 **unicornprincess76:** Jon are you some kind of secret slut here  
 **shamsky62:** What?? No, nothing like that!  
 **shamsky62:** I've gone out with a few different women over the past couple months, and none of them got super serious, so I don't know which one you would be thinking of. That's all.  
 **unicornprincess76:** oh  
 **unicornprincess76:** well the one I saw was the lady with the fabulous heels at the non-denominational Christmas party, so you can start with her  
 **shamsky62:** Okay, that was Andrea. She's in education -- we met at one of those fundraising dinners I keep getting invited to. In her free time she likes to go on these week-long hikes through various wildernesses, which I think is admirable in an insane kind of way.  
 **unicornprincess76:** sounds nice  
 **unicornprincess76:** well I would say congratulations but it seems like you didn't get very far  
 **unicornprincess76:** considering how she did not stay after the party  
 **unicornprincess76:** if you know what I mean  
 **shamsky62:** Um.  
 **shamsky62:** If you really want to know, she got there a couple hours early.  
 **unicornprincess76:** !!  
 **unicornprincess76:** and her hair still looked that fabulous afterward?  
 **shamsky62:** Well, obviously a lot of that time was spent redoing her hair...  
 **shamsky62:** I do like her, though. We might go out again sometime :-)  
 **unicornprincess76:** yes well good  
 **unicornprincess76:** okay enough chitchat  
 **unicornprincess76:** now get back to work  
 **shamsky62:** Was getting a work ethic another of your New Year's resolutions?  
 **unicornprincess76:** meanie.

 

***

 

In the week before inauguration, the whole production staff worked as hard as Jon had ever seen, making sure they had enough material prepared that they could safely take an hour off that Tuesday afternoon and watch the ceremony. Stephen offered his office (the largest television-equipped space in the studio, short of the set itself) as one seating area for the occasion. Jon was startled until he realized that Stephen did not plan to be in it at the time.

Much as he wanted to see the ceremony live, his conscience won out about three minutes before it started, and he went looking.

Stephen turned out to have holed up in Jon's office, where he was leaning against the wall and stewing over a plastic cup of something alcoholic. Jon raised his eyebrows. _Isn't it a little early to be drinking?_

Glaring balefully at him, Stephen took another hearty gulp just to prove that he could, then stuck it on the nearest shelf (between a framed photo of Seaside Heights and the Rubik's cube Neil DeGrasse Tyson had solved) so he could answer. _I'm trying to sulk. Leave me to my misery._

Jon's first reaction was to tell him no, he was being ridiculous. When Stephen was upset or hurt, Jon was always there to look out for him. Why had Stephen chosen Jon's office to lurk in, if not as an invitation to do just that?

On the other hand, maybe Jon only saw it that way because of his own desire to comfort Stephen. Maybe he wasn't helping at all, just being pushy where he shouldn't.

He swallowed. _If you really don't want me here, Stephen, I'll leave you alone._

Stephen gazed evenly at him with watery eyes. When his hands moved again, it wasn't to send Jon away or to beckon him over. _Say my name._

Jon frowned. _Stephen._

Stephen shook his head. _Don't sign it. Voice it._

It should have been easy. Jon didn't think for a second that Stephen wanted to make fun of him. And while he could count on one hand the number of times he'd voiced English these past four years, he'd had the phonemes drilled in pretty hard as a kid, and wasn't seriously afraid he'd lost them.

For some reason, though, he found himself getting jittery. _Are you sure? I'm really out of practice at that sort of thing...._

_I'll help you if you get it wrong. I just want to hear it._

 

***

 

"...Steffen."

All his vague memories of Jon's tenor were sharpened in that moment. Stephen quit slumping against the wall to stand up straight. _Almost! The first E is long, and it should be more of a V in the middle there._

Jon's brows furrowed. _I thought P-H made an F sound._

 _Yes, a lot of the time,_ said Stephen impatiently. He did not have the time to explain the whole history of English phonemes. He didn't know the first thing about the history of English phonemes. _But in my name it makes a V sound._

For an uncomfortable moment Jon stared. Then a smile twitched onto his lips.

 _What?_ demanded Stephen.

Jon was starting to crack up as he answered. _I just now got why Even S-T-E-V-P-H-E-N works as a title._

All right, that was funny. Also cute. Jon was cute. Jon was _adorable_. Stephen signed _can you try it again?_ mostly to give his hands something to say other than _I love you I love you I love you I love you._

The tension on Jon's end had broken; he responded, sheepish but good-natured, _How's this?_ "Ste...fwen."

 _Still too soft. When you do a V, it's..._ Stephen had to spell the word. _B-U-Z-Z-I-E-R._

Jon raised his eyebrows. _You lost me._

To make sure he hadn't lost himself, Stephen had to mutter a couple of syllables: fwuh, fwah, vuh, vah, ven. _Yeah, your bottom lip vibrates, your teeth are against it...here, feel._

He caught Jon's wrist and brought it up, laying the side of one finger against his lip as he intoned, "Vvvvvvvvvv...."

Jon was watching intently, blue eyes bright as they fixed on him; Stephen desperately willed his heart to stop beating so hard, for fear Jon would feel that too. Their faces were close, but not closer than they'd ever been in the past. And of course Jon was touching him, Jon never had any problems touching him....

"Ste....vvvven," voiced Jon, and tipped his head slightly to one side.

Stephen's breath hitched in his chest.

Jon slid his hand around the curve of Stephen's cheek, thumb dragging over Stephen's bottom lip as it passed. Stephen was clinging to his wrist now, shivering. Jon had not done this before. This was 100% new.

His head tilted a little further, inched a little closer, eyebrows raised and features open in the ubiquitous asking-a-question sign. _Can I...?_

There was just enough space left between them for Stephen to whip off his glasses before going for it.

Jon's mouth was hot and soft and his teeth pulled at Stephen's lower lip in a way that made Stephen go weak at the knees. His free hand went to Stephen's waist and splayed across the small of his back, while Stephen's flailed for a moment before locking across Jon's shoulders and clinging, feeling the way the muscles shifted as Jon moved to cup the base of his skull. The moment Jon's tongue made an appearance Stephen sucked it into his mouth, and moaned like he'd never tasted anything so good.

At last Jon pulled his head back with a gasp, and retrieved one of his hands enough to flash _O-K?_

Stephen nodded so hard he made himself dizzy.

Jon gave him a warm, relieved smile, then continued the disentangling. Stephen allowed it, reluctantly. Any moment Jon was talking to him was one less moment for Jon to shove him up against the wall before someone came and found them.

 _So,_ said Jon at last. _Guess I should stop trying to date now, huh?_

 _I love you,_ burst out Stephen.

A flush crept up Jon's neck. _Wow, if that's what my voice does to people, it's a good thing I avoid using it._

Stephen made a not-entirely-kidding throttling gesture. If Jon couldn't be serious about this for one minute....

 _Sorry._ Jon tucked a wisp of Stephen's hair back behind his wonky ear. _My dear Stephen._

It was enough to get Stephen's hands flowing again. _I didn't want to tell you. Then I did want to tell you, but was afraid because of the whole only-dating-ladies thing. Unless you were secretly seeing men at any point in there?_ (Jon shook his head.) _Because I was! But you were so friendly to the gays that I figured you would have said something. Why didn't you say something? You could have been kissing me years ago!_

That earned an indignant look from Jon. _You're the one who's been hiding things!_ he protested, indicating Stephen with a reproachful poke in the chest. _I never imagined...look, I've had crushes on guys, but in practice way more of us are straight women than gay men, so I never planned on having a chance to try it out in person. And you didn't exactly give me any reason to doubt it! I'll admit I had a hunch about you and other dudes, somewhere between the fake wife story and the fiftieth anti-gay segment pitch I vetoed, but how was I supposed to know you'd be into **me**?_

Stephen's face fell. With gestures so taut his hands hurt with the strain, he insisted, _You are my favorite person in the **whole world**._

Jon melted into a long-suffering sigh that Stephen found just a bit melodramatic. Then he relaxed. _I accept your apology._

He went straight from the phrase to spreading his open palms over Stephen's chest, so Stephen decided that making a fuss was less important than letting Jon kiss him again.

 

***

 

"Okay, guys, seriously, one of you has to be in here, this is—"

Kristen stopped with her hand on the doorknob and one foot over the threshold of Jon's office. Her boss was backed up against the wall, writhing in a slow burn of pleasure, while her other boss felt up under his shirt and kissed his neck and ground their hips lazily together.

Stephen twisted to get his chin hooked over Jon's shoulder. "Is it an emergency?" he demanded, surprisingly authoritative for someone half out of breath.

"Um, no," admitted Kristen, transfixed by the motion of the back of Jon's...shirt. Yeah.

"Then come back in ten minutes."

"Sure. Okay." Kristen started moving backward, with slow, sliding steps.

"Hurry it up!" snapped Stephen, burying his fingers in Jon's hair. "And shut the door!"

 

***

 

"All of us at _The Daily Show_ are absolutely thrilled and honored to accept this latest Emmy. Although I can't imagine why we got it," said Stephen, patting its pretty little head. The staff were clustered around him, Jon at his right hand, signing along with the speech he had prepared. "I mean, it could have been so many things! Jon's hard-hitting and headline-making interview with Jim Cramer...my continued spotlight on the epidemic of glorifying wrist violence in this culture...maybe that week we did half of each show from Iraq. Whatever it was that caught the Academy's eye, we applaud their perceptiveness. Thanks to everyone on the staff and crew, especially Allison Silverman, Ben Karlin, Jimmy Hoskinson, and Kallie Thompson. But thanks, most of all to me. None of this would have happened without my tireless...."

He trailed off; Jon was tugging at his arm. "What is it, Jon?"

_The audience understands that just because I'm signing this for you, it doesn't mean I endorse all of it, right?_

Stephen tucked the Emmy under his arm to answer. For someone who had survived two weeks of trying to sign with one arm completely out of commission, this was nothing. "Of course the audience doesn't think you endorse everything I say just because you happen to be translating it," he scoffed. "The audience thinks you endorse my words because you work in a supervisory capacity over the people who actually wrote them. Or does the buck just not stop anywhere, Jon?"

_...never mind._

"I will never mind. Thank you." Stephen went back to cradling the Emmy like a child. (The main difference, as far as he could tell, was that you could melt down the Emmy and sell it if necessary.) "Aaaand they're playing us off. Thank you again!"

There may have been some playful shoving as they filed offstage, leading to some gossipy comment from the announcer that Jon didn't notice and Stephen didn't listen to. A few minutes later, the crowd-cam caught Jon kissing Stephen just below his right ear, and the announcer had to admit that it didn't look like there was trouble in paradise after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Embarrassing Noises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/975735) by [ErinPtah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah)




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